Vaendalle’s shadow loomed over him, arms crossed. His voice was firm but playful. “What are you doing on the ground? Get up. This training isn’t over just because you’ve taken a nap.”

Arthanis pushed himself up, his body aching, frustration bubbling to the surface. “Yeah, yeah,” he muttered, standing on shaky legs. He wasn’t ready to give up, not yet. He tightened his grip on the wooden sword, determination blazing in his eyes.

This time, he launched himself at Vaendalle with renewed focus, circling to his blind side and aiming a calculated strike at his neck. Arthanis’s heart pounded in his chest, his senses heightened. He was sure he’d catch Vaendalle off guard.

But once again, before he could even blink, Vaendalle was gone from his line of sight. A second later, a powerful strike connected with his head. The world spun as stars danced in his vision, and he found himself on the ground yet again, staring up at the sky in disbelief.

“What… again?” Arthanis groaned, blinking through the haze. He tilted his head upward and saw Vaendalle standing above him, a smug grin on his face.

Vaendalle tilted his head mockingly. “Is this the best the forest could teach you? I thought you’d learned something out there.”

Arthanis gritted his teeth, struggling to suppress his frustration. He wasn’t used to feeling so helpless in a fight. Vaendalle wasn’t just fast—he was on another level entirely. He climbed to his feet, shaking off the dizziness. “Let’s go again,” he said through clenched teeth. “I’ll see your movements this time.”

Vaendalle’s grin widened, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Welcome back to your hell training, lad,” he said with a chuckle that sent a shiver down Arthanis’s spine.

As they squared off once more, Arthanis could feel the eyes of the other villagers watching, their whispers filling the air. Some seemed astonished at how easily Vaendalle was toying with him, while others murmured in awe of Vaendalle’s sheer skill. Arthanis forced himself to block them out. None of that mattered right now. What mattered was surviving this training, learning from it. He needed to understand why Vaendalle was so fast, why he couldn’t even read his movements—and why even Mire couldn’t keep up.

Was this the difference in power between them? Arthanis had no doubt that the real Arthanis had felt the same frustration. Perhaps that was why he had run away—he had faced this kind of overwhelming strength and had known he couldn’t match it. I get it now… why he left the village…

But running wasn’t an option for Arthanis. He wasn’t the same man who had fled. He had to fight, to endure. He clenched his jaw and raised his sword, determination burning through the doubt.

“I can do this,” he whispered, his voice thick with resolve.

Vaendalle’s grin softened slightly, but his eyes still gleamed with mischief. “Come on, boy. Show me that fire.”

Arthanis lunged forward again, faster this time, his body tense with anticipation. He struck at Vaendalle’s side, his mind racing to anticipate a counter. His movements were more fluid, more precise.

But once again, Vaendalle’s blade was a blur. This time, Arthanis felt the strike before he even saw it. The flat of Vaendalle’s sword connected with his leg, knocking him off balance and sending him crashing to the ground with a grunt.

Lying there, panting, Arthanis couldn’t suppress the flood of thoughts racing through his mind. What is this power? Vaendalle wasn’t just faster—he was reading Arthanis’s every move, almost as if he knew what was coming before it happened.

In the back of his mind, Mire’s voice hummed with a warning.

[Power gap detected. User must adapt.]

The words echoed in Arthanis’s mind like a mantra. Adapt. That was the key. Survival in this world required more than just strength or speed—it demanded something far greater.

With a groan, he pushed himself to his feet once more. His body ached, every muscle protesting in dull, throbbing pain, but his mind felt sharper, more focused. He couldn’t rely on brute force against someone like Vaendalle. The old man wasn’t just a swordsman—he was a master, a predator who could sense hesitation and strike before the thought even crossed his opponent’s mind.

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If Arthanis was going to survive in this world, he would need to close the gap—not by matching Vaendalle in raw power, but by outthinking him. Strength without strategy is meaningless. The forest may have taught him the importance of survival, but here, in front of Vaendalle, he was learning something much deeper: control.

He steadied himself, forcing his breathing to slow, his grip on the wooden sword more deliberate. His eyes narrowed as he faced the old man once again, determination flaring in his chest like a burning ember.

The murmurs of the crowd swirled around them, their whispers filled with curiosity and doubt. They watched, likely wondering how much longer he could last against Vaendalle’s relentless assault.

Vaendalle’s eyes glinted with amusement as he lowered his blade slightly, as if taunting Arthanis to make his move. “Still standing, are you?” he teased, but beneath the playful tone was a subtle shift—an undercurrent of respect. Arthanis wasn’t giving up, and that was something Vaendalle hadn’t expected. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.”

Arthanis wiped the sweat from his brow, a small, defiant smirk pulling at his lips. “Not a chance I’m backing down,” he replied, his voice steady, though his body screamed in protest. His muscles were heavy, his arms tired, but the fire inside him wouldn’t be extinguished.

He wasn’t beaten. Not yet.

He advanced, but slower this time, watching Vaendalle’s every move, waiting for the slightest opening. His approach wasn’t reckless or desperate now—it was calculated. Every step was measured, every movement deliberate. He wasn’t trying to overwhelm Vaendalle; he was trying to outlast him, force him to reveal something, anything that Arthanis could use.

The crowd leaned in, sensing the shift in the air. This wasn’t just a sparring session anymore—it was a battle of wills.

Vaendalle’s expression shifted ever so slightly, his grin fading into something more serious. “So, you’re learning,” he muttered under his breath, his stance shifting. He could see the change in Arthanis’s posture, the calculated restraint in his movements. The boy wasn’t relying on brute force anymore. He was thinking, adapting.

But Vaendalle was no fool. He had spent years honing his skills, and even if Arthanis had the will to endure, willpower alone wasn’t enough to bridge the gap between them.

Arthanis feinted to the left, then pivoted sharply, aiming a quick strike at Vaendalle’s side. But the old man was quicker than Arthanis anticipated, parrying the attack with a casual flick of his sheathed sword. The impact reverberated through Arthanis’s arms, and for a moment, he stumbled, nearly losing his balance.

But instead of retreating, he pressed forward. He didn’t have the luxury of fear. He didn’t have time to hesitate. He swung again, this time lower, toward Vaendalle’s legs, hoping to disrupt his footing.

Vaendalle’s blade came down with a swift, precise motion, deflecting the strike once more. The force behind it sent Arthanis back a few paces, his feet skidding against the dirt, but he didn’t fall. He held his ground, gritting his teeth, refusing to give in.

For the first time, Vaendalle’s expression faltered. Just for a second. It was small—almost imperceptible—but it was there. A flicker of surprise. Arthanis caught it. And that was all he needed.

He lunged forward again, this time aiming not for Vaendalle’s body but for his sword, trying to knock the sheathed blade out of his grip. It was a bold move, one born from desperation, but there was a method to the madness. If he could disarm Vaendalle, even for a moment, it would force the old man to rely on his agility alone. It would level the playing field—if only slightly.

But Vaendalle, ever the master, saw through the gambit. With a twist of his wrist, he countered the strike, and in the blink of an eye, Arthanis found himself flat on his back once more, the wind knocked from his lungs as Vaendalle’s blade tapped against his chest.

“Not bad,” Vaendalle said, pulling the sword back and offering a hand to help him up. His grin returned, though now there was no mockery behind it—just the quiet respect of a seasoned warrior. “You’re getting smarter. But you’re still not fast enough.”

Arthanis lay there for a moment, chest heaving, staring up at the sky. His body was spent, his muscles screaming for rest. But in the back of his mind, something clicked. Vaendalle wasn’t just testing his endurance—he was testing his adaptability, his willingness to learn. And Arthanis had learned something important: strength was only part of the equation. The real battle was about learning to anticipate, to read movements before they happened, to outthink his opponent.

As Vaendalle pulled him to his feet, Arthanis caught his breath, wiping the sweat from his brow. “One more round,” he said, his voice hoarse but steady.

Vaendalle raised an eyebrow, impressed. “You sure you’ve got it in you?”

Arthanis smirked, raising his wooden sword once more. “I’m not beaten yet.”

The crowd around them watched in hushed awe, sensing the tension between teacher and student. But Arthanis barely noticed them anymore. His focus was entirely on Vaendalle. He had a long way to go before he could match the old man in skill, but that didn’t matter.

Because right now, he wasn’t fighting to win—he was fighting to learn. To survive. To adapt.

And that was the real key to closing the power gap.